


Attitude Adjustment

by TellMeNoAgain



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Belts, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Domestic Discipline, Don't worry: I scheduled a chat with my therapist about my very obvious daddy issues, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, Fieldtrip Fic, Honestly I Think You COULD Read it Consensually But There Are ZERO Explicit Indicators of Consent, IronDaddy - Freeform, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Spanking, Starkercest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26944642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Starklyy's birthday ficFor the absolutely sinful prompt: Dad tony, starkercest fieldtrip ficWhich I took to a perverted extreme, because you've met me, right?Livvi and Sam say it's hot, and you know they're never wrong, when they agree.
Relationships: Tony Stark/Peter Parker
Comments: 51
Kudos: 190





	Attitude Adjustment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Starklyy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starklyy/gifts).



> It should go without saying that any single time I reference this non-parenting style in a positive way, I'm fucking lying. This is HORRIFIC parenting and I swear to God, I will cut you with knives if you treat real children this way. Dull ones. In a non-sexy way. FOREVER. I'll figure out a perpetual cutting-you-with-dull-knives machine, and I'll use it. 
> 
> That said, fetishizing incest in a fic is fine, because brains are weird, and NO ONE GETS HURT.
> 
> Watch. Them. Tags. 
> 
> Special thanks to mindwiped for the superfast beta work, and the Trigger Warning Cheerleading Squad in WriterBuddies Discord server: livvibee, SamTheSnake, personaljunkdrawer, WinterIronCap, kabe, Orchidaexa and TedraKitty come to mind.
> 
> **There's minor Pepper involvement, a couple of very short references and she's in the epilogue. I believe it's completely ignorable if that's not your thing, but protect yourself however necessary. (Seriously, though, I'm gonna do a leeetle bit of judging if you got all the way into the author's note and then noped out of this fic because Pepper is his mom and is supportive of her husband. Leeetle bit, I eye you up and go HUH.)**

Tony’s phone rang- _again_ \- and Peter slumped further into the bus seat, rolling his eyes at Ned across the aisle as his dad picked up and said, “Yeah, Stark here, I told you, I’m helping out with my kid’s fieldtrip toda- what? What?!”

At least they were in the really good bus seats, _courtesy of Daddy’s money_ , thought Peter with an internal sneer, kicking at his backpack.

But he really wished mom or even Aunt May had been able to come, today. Dad was nearing the fiscal end of the year whirlwind of paperwork and projects and while he’d promised, _promised,_ he could unplug from work and just _be a normal dad_ for once, he’d taken three calls just on the ride to the museum. This was gonna suck. This was gonna be like every Halloween ever, with Dad swearing he could handle trick-or-treat and then screaming into a cell phone at some point while Peter shuffled his feet with his friends down the block and looking up into the pitying expressions of their parents.

He was a good Dad, probably, thought Peter. But not for the entire month of October. He should just retire his dad badge for the whole month, and let the rest of the world get on with their lives.

Peter kicked his backpack again, as his dad finished, “And I’m serious, talk to the wife next time, I’m on Petey’s fieldtrip. I’m gonna turn this off if you don’t cooperate, you hear me?”

 _Fat chance,_ snorted Peter in his head, knowing MJ and Ned were shooting him concerned and sympathetic glances. _Fat fucking chance._

“Sorry,” muttered Dad.

Peter sighed. Yeah, the whole month of October, that’s about the only word Dad had for him. Why couldn’t he just _give up_ , and let Peter get on with his life with, like, Happy as a dad or something? Uncle Ben? _Someone else._

“You said you’d be cool,” he muttered at his dad, feeling the lump in his throat rise up. “You shoulda just let mom-”

“Your mom is great at a lot of things, but running through a science-themed museum and screaming with you about the cool shit they got in there is _not one of them_ ,” his dad pointed out, sounding a little hurt. “C’mon, sport, gimme a chance, here, it’s just reminding people I’m out of the office for a bit. They’ll catch on.”

 _They never had before_ , thought Peter resentfully, but when his dad slung an arm over his shoulders, he felt his heart lift, anyway, cheeks burning because they were on a _bus_ in front of all his _friends_.

Dad leaned over and hissed his head, right above his ear, and murmured, “Gimme a chance.”

What was Peter supposed to say to that? The embarrassing display of affection was working, it always did, that’s why Dad played it up when they had an audience. “Fine, I will,” he sighed, rolling his eyes and shifting under the heavy arm, trying to make it look like he wasn’t _snuggling in._

”Good boy,” said Dad quietly, before pulling back into his own seat and leaning forward to grin at Ned. “Hey, you really think we can get a copy of the Iron Man suit done in legos in the hour we have scheduled for that exhibit, or should we tank the dinosaur floor and give ourselves two hours?”

MJ said firmly, “You tank the dinosaurs and I’ll tank all of you. I’m not doing two hours of legos without dinosaurs.”

“Fair enough,” laughed Dad, jogging Peter’s elbow with his own jovially. “Let’s make sure we keep the little lady happy, huh?”

“Dad,” sighed Peter, rolling his eyes. “MJ can eat you for breakfast. She’s as fierce as mom. She’s not a _little lady.”_

“All the more reason to keep her happy,” chuckled Dad.

“The schedule is perfect,” MJ said fiercely. “We change _nothing_ about it.”

“Works for me,” agreed Dad in a chirpy happy voice. “So, that means we start with the physics floor, right?”

“Yesss,” hissed Ned in excitement, his eyes lighting up in a way that made Peter’s heart bounce excitedly, too. “Oh, man, doing the physics challenges with Tony Stark! This is the best day of my life!”

Well. _Clearly he hadn’t been around Tony Stark often enough, in October,_ thought Peter snidely, but when Dad started asking questions about which challenges Ned thought the museum would have this month, and Ned and MJ began speculating, and Dad’s phone didn’t go off for the rest of the ride, it was pretty impossible to hold onto his bad attitude. His dad _shone_ in discussions of which past exhibits they’d been to and how _fun_ they’d been, telling stories and laughing, introducing MJ to some of the oldest in-jokes in their little triad- Ned and Tony and Peter, the three musketeers of the Museum of Science’s Physics Floor.

He didn’t even get the DING DING of a text message marked URGENT until they were all the way through the brief “Okay, students, this is the point of the fieldtrip” assembly at the entry way, which meant he listened attentively to the three science teachers in charge of the chaos as they explained- _again_ \- their expectations for the students and their chaperones.

“You hear that, Petey,” laughed Dad, as his phone dinged, “Mr. Mustache and Mrs. Frizzlehair say you have to _be good_ and _listen to me_ for once.”

“Dad, don’t-“ began Peter, his heart sinking, but Dad swiped the screen and frowned for a minute. “Physic’s floors up the escalator, Petey,” mumbled Dad, wandering away, fingers already stabbing at the keys, “Pitter Patter, little Peter, MJ’s got us on a schedule.”

Peter steered him towards the escalator as MJ and Ned walked around them, talking excitedly.

“Okay, done,” declared Dad, shoving the phone in his pocket, his whole body electric and engaged again. Peter bit his lip and tried to tell himself to _enjoy it while it lasted_ as his dad looked around wildly and immediately demanded they start with the light studio. MJ squealed, which was nice, but Peter knew Dad had picked that one because of Peter’s recent interest in lights and cameras.

It did help him feel a little better, remembering that his dad _always_ put him first.

And there really was _no one on the planet_ as much fun on the physics floors as Tony Stark.

At least, until they were building a complex waterway, trying to get the flow of the water to exceed the specifications of the unit and flood the floor, which was like a personal goal for Dad, every time the museum thought they were safe and hosted a water exhibit again, and his phone started to ring. “Fuck,” he muttered, and pulled it out again, making bitter angry bile flood Peter’s mouth because they were _literally_ a quarter inch from success and _fuck_ , of course. A phone call. _Of course._

Ned and MJ threw out ideas as Dad walked away and Peter glared at the plastic gates in front of him. No, wait, he didn’t have to feel abandoned and rejected. _Fuck that. Fuck all of that noise, in fact._ He began ripping the plastic gates out of the waterworks, while Ned and MJ yelped, “What the hell, Peter?” and “No, Peter, we’ve almost got it!”

Dad didn’t notice, because Dad was too busy yelling into his phone about something to do with some dumbass project lead bothering him on his day off with his kid, Peter noted sullenly, throwing the plastic gates in the bin and rounding the table, ripping up more and more and more, until the water in the waterway was once again running placidly along its huge channel bed.

“Peter, what the hell?” asked MJ again, her voice confused and hurt.

“Time’s up, anyway,” Peter muttered angrily.

“We almost had it,” mourned Ned, running his fingers through the sluggish water. “We coulda been five minutes later to the next thing.”

“You’re being a jerk,” MJ said, rolling her eyes at Peter and crossing her arms.

“Who’s being a jerk?” asked Dad, walking up, concern on his face.

“It’s time to go to the next floor,” said Peter, his heart thumping. “I was just cleaning up for the next group. They’re just mad there wasn’t time. I should have warned them.”

“Well, Petey, I think we probably could have gone an extra five minutes,” said Dad reasonably, looking disappointedly at the display. “But, yeah, okay, hon. Got that schedule to stick to, and MJ’s a fierce woman we’re all terrified of, right?” His smile looked a little less bright than his usual one, but MJ snorted and gave a little grin, and the tension leaked out of Ned just as quickly as he realized- “Wait, it’s robots next, right? Robots?! With Tony Stark?!”

“Robots,” confirmed Dad, clapping his hands on Peter’s shoulders. “Let’s go! Last one there is a rusty wrench!”

He tripped Peter and took the lead, which was a dick move but not unexpected. And it meant Peter had to really put some effort in to not be last, which meant the victory was super sweet. It felt good to stick his tongue out at his dad and sing _We Are the Champions_ with Ned and MJ, Dad laughing and declaring he’d get them all the next time.

~~~

But the good times didn’t last, because of course they didn’t. Dad got another phone call and this time he had to go shout at the guy, not to leave him alone, but something about an unethical application of some design, probably something that should have been addressed at _any other time_ than Peter’s _one_ fall fieldtrip. Peter glowered at his battle bot and then, feeling the anger rise up in him because _Dad always did this_ , he ripped off a section of Dad’s bot and savaged it for pieces.

“Go ahead,” he muttered at Ned. “Take the lasers. He’s busy, he won’t be back.”

“Peter,” breathed Ned. “I think you, uh- you need to like, get a grip.” But he took the lasers, and attached them gingerly to the top of his bot with an expression of awe. There wasn’t supposed to be anything in the exhibit that could cause actual damage, but Dad was good at improvising, Peter conceded. Ned pushed a button on his controller and his whole stupid face lit up as a scorching blast hit the far wall of the battle dome.

“Hey, Peter,” muttered MJ. “I know, like, your dad is busy and stuff, but it’s really cool that he could make time to come out _at all_ , so maybe, stop being such a pouty jerk every time he has to step away for five minutes. My dad hasn’t been on a fieldtrip with me in years, and we wouldn’t want him on one, anyway, he would never think to use the wire cutters as a robotic arm.” She considered her murder bot happily and then added, “And he really wouldn’t know how to convince the docent to let us build unsupervised.”

Peter hunched his shoulders because they didn’t understand, it wasn’t just the damn _fieldtrip_ that Dad interrupted with business, the _entire month of October_. It was _everything,_ Peter’s whole life! Everything got, “five more minutes” or “Just a sec, Petey,” in October, and it _sucked_.

“Yeah, Peter,” said Ned very quietly, moving in so MJ wouldn’t hear. “And, uh, your dad’s got that whole hands-on super strict thing he does, so, um-“ Peter looked up quickly and Ned flinched, but forged on with, “I mean, just be careful, okay?”

Peter sighed and ripped another piece off of his dad’s bot, rolling his eyes. “You want this razor wire shooter, or not?”

“Um, not, my controller’s already full,” said Ned, after a moment. “MJ, you want the-“

“Yesss,” she hissed, eyes glowing with bloodthirsty delight and fingers twitching as she reached out a hand. The timer beeped to let them know they had 3 minutes to fight time and Peter hunched over his bot, fingers flying furiously, brain calculating the same speed it did when he was in Dad’s workshop and they were solving problems on _their projects_ , instead of Dad hunched over screens and screens filled with SI employees’ dumb projects. Labtime _sucked_ in October.

As the timer beeped the 1 minute warning, Dad trotted back over, saying, “Damn, one minute, good thing I was almost- oh.”

“We didn’t think you’d get back in time,” Peter informed him coldly, feeling lightheaded with anger. That little _oh_ had been so worth it! “And your mods were too good to _waste_.”

“Oh, sure,” said Dad, patting Ned on the back. “Good idea there, attaching it off the side, wish I’d thought of that.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Ned breathlessly. “I can’t wait to-“

“May the best bot- and engineer-win,” said Dad heartily, and Peter felt a little trickle of satisfaction knowing that he’d have to watch the whole thing and not get to do _any_ crowing or shrieking, whoever won or lost.

See how he liked it when the world just moved on and left him behind. Maybe this really was the best way to handle it, the most adult take-your-medicine way to get back at Dad for always ruining everything, the whole month of October. Maybe he should apply this strategy across the board. _Walk away, and I move on without you, Dad,_ thought Peter with bitter satisfaction.

The green countdown hit 00:00 and the red battle alerts went up, making Ned whoop and MJ grin fiercely.

“Get ‘em!” shouted Dad, universally, and Peter smiled. _Yeah. Get ‘em!_

~~~

They were cleaning up the carnage as Dad apologized profusely to the docent at the back of the exhibit, Ned still flying high on his victory, when Peter frowned at an announcement overhead and pulled out his phone, reviewing the schedule. “Hey, guys, if we flip dinosaurs to the afternoon, we can do the butterfly cage now, and then do legos,” he offered. “And if we do the butterfly cage now, we’ll be there when they do the nectar thing, but if we wait until the afternoon-“

“Oh, yeah, the nectar!” enthused Ned. “Yeah, MJ, let’s swap it, huh?”

“Works for me,” she said with satisfaction, wiping her hands and looking around. “I think we’re done here.”

“Hey, Dad, going to the next exhibit,” called Peter, and his Dad met his eyes and nodded before holding up a hand to show he was still busy. The bile and anger lapping at the edge of his every thought flooded back and drowned him for a second. “Fine,” he bit out, turning to Ned and MJ. “I’ll text him, let him know where we’re going,” he lied. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“Uh, okay,” said Ned a little nervously.

“Butterflies,” squealed MJ. “I can’t believe we forgot about the nectar feeding time!”

It _was_ pretty flame, Peter conceded, pulling out his phone and pretending to text his dad. Ned watched him in concern, so he even remembered to pretend to push send.

“There, see?” he said to Ned. “I’m on the urgent dial, he’ll get the alert and have to check it, he’s totally married to that urgent dial. We’re good, c’mon, Ned.”

Ned looked over his shoulder once and said, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Peter, because if you don’t-“

“I know what I’m doing,” muttered Peter. He did! He was teaching his dad an important lesson about _paying attention_.

~~~

The butterflies were exactly as cool as Peter’d remembered from his last trip to the museum. They got really excited when the docent brought out the sponges filled with sticky nectar and handed one to each participant, flying and swooping everywhere. MJ was absolutely enchanted and even Ned, usually not a big fan of insects and bugs, was captivated by the beauty.

Peter eyed the clock and wondered how long it would take Dad to be done talking, and then to walk up to the dinosaurs exhibit, and then to realize they weren’t there, and then to text Peter to see where they were. It’d been fifteen minutes, already, and his phone was still silent, in his pocket.

After twenty, his palms started to sweat. He offered one of his sponges to Amber, the girl who sat four rows behind him in English, who squealed with delight and held it out like a statue for a huge iridescent butterfly to land and begin investigating with its proboscis. He dug in his pocket and pulled out his phone, shocked to find it was turned off.

 _Turned off,_ he repeated to himself with a sudden sense of doom. Because if it was turned off, then- then not only could his dad _not text him_ , but he couldn’t _track_ Peter, either. And neither MJ nor Ned had Starkphones, they had some cheap Kyocera bullshit, and- _oh shit oh shit_ , he panicked. “Here, take this,” he said to the person standing next to him, shoving the other sponge he was holding in their hands and making them grunt, “Thanks, Parker!”

“Yeah, anytime,” he said absently, trying to boot up the phone. _Shit shit shit shit shit_ , he thought frantically, muttering to Ned and MJ, “I, um, be right back, gotta find, um-“

The phone wouldn’t boot. It wasn’t turned off, it was _bricked_. _Fuck_ , he decided. _Fuck_ was now appropriate. He went through the butterfly decontamination chamber, checking the mirror absently to make sure he wasn’t carrying any out in the museum proper, heart racing as he shook his phone and tried to remember if he’d put a charger in his backpack. If he put a charger in his backpack, he could find an outlet, and charge the phone, and call his dad, before his dad-

“Peter,” yelled a deep voice, as he stepped out of the chamber and looked up.

Straight into the face of a docent, two guards, and his very thunderous-looking dad.

 _Ulp_.

“I was just trying to call you-“ Peter began, holding up his phone as evidence. “I was-“

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Dad in a clipped, polite tone, “For all of your help. Can I request some additional assistance, at the scheduled lunch hour? A private room, to have a chat with my son about _safety_ and _communication._ ”

 _Fuck_. Peter knew his jaw had dropped and closed his mouth tightly on all the babbling excuses that jumped to his lips. Dad would not be receptive to them at this point. Not with witnesses capable of finding him a private room, post haste.

“Yessir, Mr. Stark, be a pleasure to assist,” said the guard on the right blackly, glaring at Peter. “We’ll come find you, noon.”

“Thank you, I will make sure I am very _easy_ to find,” Dad said shortly, making the other guard chuckle as all three museum employees turned away.

“Dad, I-“ began Peter in a faltering voice, as Dad stalked closer, his face getting more and more intense the closer he got to Peter.

“Skip it. Three steps from me, at all times, beginning _now_ , son,” demanded Dad, before pulling Peter into a tight hug. “God, all I could think was-“

Peter’s eyes welled up, overwhelmed by all the bad memories and the sheer panic he’d just re-experienced. “I’m not, I’m safe- I- we- I thought you’d text but my phone is dead and I didn’t mean to-“

“Skip it, kid,” growled his dad. “You know the rules. You know why we _have_ the rules. And you know _exactly_ what’s coming to you, for _breaking_ the rules.”

Peter swallowed and nodded, his eyes burning. “I’m safe, I’m not hurt,” he reassured Dad. “I- as soon as I- I was trying to find a charger-“

“Thirty minutes. Five more and-“ choked his Dad. “We have _rules_ , Peter.”

Thirty-five minutes. Exactly how long it had taken, when he’d been twelve, for him to be missing and for no one to check security cameras, no one to check and realize he hadn’t just wandered off, he’d been snatched.

Peter swallowed, and nodded. “I know, I know, I know, Dad, I didn’t-“

“Hey, Peter,” said Ned cautiously, “Hey, Mr. Stark. Everything… okay?”

“Oh, you didn’t have to leave the exhibit,” muttered Peter, pulling away from his dad, “you can’t- you only get one shot!”

“Well, we did have to, actually, because you ran off,” said MJ irritably, glaring at him.

“But now there’ll be more time for legos,” said Ned diplomatically. “ _And_ MJ will get all of the dinos.”

“I thought you texted him,” MJ hissed, as Dad and Ned took the lead, this time, Ned coaxing some real excitement back into Dad, who wasn’t looking at Peter, now, wasn’t looking at Peter and Peter was careful to keep three steps behind him, three steps behind the man and within easy reach, at all times.

Peter shrugged and shook his head.

“Man, Peter, sometimes you’re the worst,” she hissed. “You’re trying to ruin _everything_ about this fieldtrip, you know that?”

Peter felt his heart sink as he flinched away from her.

“Fix your attitude,” she suggested in a whisper. “Because if you ruin legos for Ned, when he and your dad have been going back and forth about it all week, I swear to God…”

Peter nodded firmly, pressing his lips together. No. No, he could get it together, he could, he could get it together and remember the rules and be- be a good friend and not, not ruin _absolutely_ _everything_.

_Fuck._

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

_~~~_

The clock chimed noon and they all straightened, sighing in satisfaction as they looked at it. “We did it!” shouted Ned excitedly.

Peter’s fingers _hurt_ , with how fast they’d had to work the last fifteen minutes, to get it done, but there it was, a ½ scale model of the Iron Man suit. His dad bumped his shoulder and said, “Pretty badass for an old guy, huh?”

It _was_ mostly his design. His and Ned’s with just a few creative suggestions from Peter and most of the boring grunt-work block searching from MJ. Peter rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, okay, it’s only the coolest thing this exhibit has _ever_ seen, you guys.”

“I’m taking a million photos, please, Mr. Stark, can we be a little late to lunch?” asked Ned plaintively, as a docent came over and marked their table OFF LIMITS- DO NOT TOUCH, with a grin for them and a thumbs up.

“Nope,” said Dad ruthlessly, a hand coming down on Peter’s shoulder. “So take ‘em fast, Ned.”

Peter felt his face turn bright red as his dad’s hand rested heavily, gripping tightly.

At the sound of footsteps, he looked up, startled.

“We can make sure these two get to the cafeteria with the other group, Mr. Stark,” said the nearest security guard.

“If you’ll follow me, Mr. Stark,” said the bigger security guard, from before. The one who’d promised Dad he’d _find a private room_ for Dad and Peter to have a chat in.

“Excellent. You two- behave,” Dad said firmly. Ned paled and said, “Yes, sir,” and even MJ looked subdued as she nodded solemnly.

“C’mon, kiddo,” said Dad, pushing on Peter’s shoulder, guiding him to follow the bigger guard.

Peter tripped and Dad waited patiently for him to sort out his feet before pushing him forward again.

Well. Yeah. Lunch was supposed to be a whole hour. He had all the time in the world to sort Peter out.

 _Fuck_.

~~~

“I know you take a lotta criticism, for your hands-on parenting, Mr. Stark,” said the guard easily, as he led them down the darker corridor of the basement. “But me and the wife do it, too, and my kid’s like yours is, top of his class and everything, never a day in trouble with the law.”

“Not too much criticism, these days,” said Dad just as easily. “With results like Peter, I can just sit back and say, _Well?_ ”

The guard laughed as Peter’s face lit up again, tripping over his feet as they came to a halt and Dad pulled him back tight. “Right!” agreed the guard. “Well, best of luck to both of you,” he said cheerfully. “Holler if you need a hand, I remember his kidnapping, all over the news- and I figure wandering off’s bound to be even worse for you than it is for me and my son.”

Dad made a noncommittal noise and pushed Peter into the room, flipping on the light and saying smoothly, “I have him well in hand, thanks, though.”

“Bet you do,” chuckled the guard, closing the door tightly behind them.

Peter swallowed, heart racing.

“What’s the rule, Peter?” said his dad, with no further preamble.

Peter stepped nervously away. “Don’t, uh-“ His throat closed and he couldn’t turn around, look up at his dad, and see the disappointment there. He shuffled, instead, farther away, around the single folding chair in the center of the room, and well away from the shelves carefully sorted and labeled with all kinds of materials.

“Don’t what?” demanded his da- no, his father. This was _definitely_ his father, now. Not playful, fun, Dad, casual and affectionate and easygoing. This was Peter’s _father_ , now, in this room with him.

“Don’t,” whispered Peter, “um, sneak away. Always- um- always let you know where I am.”

“Especially out in public, in public places where anyone and everyone has access, correct?” asked Father in a clipped voice.

“Especially out in public,” agreed Peter, skittish, now, as his father stepped further into the room, stalking him.

“This have anything to do with that rotten mood you’ve been in all day, Petey?” asked his father.

Peter shrugged, the lump in his throat cutting off his ability to reply.

“All day, Peter,” repeated his father. “Look at me.”

Peter winced and turned, to face the man. He lifted his chin but couldn’t quite lift his eyes as the man stalked forward to stand directly in front of him. “Look up,” said his father in a firm and steady tone.

Peter shook his head, lips already quivering, eyes smarting. “Can’t,” he gasped.

“Because you know what you did was _wrong_ , wasn’t it?” said his father sternly. “The whole day, the whole snotty attitude, wrecking your friend’s fun and tearing apart my robot, do you think we wouldn’t be standing here just to have a little chat about _those_ little things, Petey?”

Peter gasped, wishing the floor would swallow him up. “I- I-“ _I didn’t know you’d noticed_ , he wanted to wail. _Not that way_.

“Yeah, you thought you’d get away with it, because we’re on a fieldtrip, but surprise, Petey, there’s no time or place where I’m not infinitely qualified to address your behavior,” his father reminded him, hands tapping on his belt.

Peter, panicked, looked up. _He wasn’t gonna-_

His father’s face was set in a scowl. “So we’re going to address this, the behavior, the sneaking around, everything, right now, and then we’re calling your mom, and you’re going to explain what happened to her, and apologize to _her-“_ Peter gasped, even though he should have known it was coming “-and we’ll see what she thinks of this, when we get home tonight. But Petey, the attitude stops _now_ , you hear me?”

“Y-yessir,” stuttered Peter, the panic coursing through his veins again.

“You clearly wanted my attention, today,” said his father pointedly. “And now, look, you have it,” he said, throwing wide his arms and gesturing at the small, empty room, before bringing them back to his belt buckle, and beginning to unfasten it.

“N-no, please, I’m sorry,” babbled Peter, his heart in his throat.

“Good start on the new leaf,” praised his father before saying pointedly, “Drop the backpack, and the pants, Petey,” and whipping his belt out from his pants.

Peter shucked the backpack and threw it to the ground. “No, please, I’ll be good, I won’t- my phone was dead, it-“

“You told me it had a full charge before we left this morning,” his father reminded him, and Peter felt his heart sink.

“I s-said I _thought_ ,” stuttered Peter.

“So we’re lying now, is that what we’re doing?” grunted his father. “Doubling down, that’s what we’re doing?”

“No!” shouted Peter, surprised at himself, at the anger that welled up to straighten his spine. “I’m not- I don’t! You never _listen_ to me! You’re always so _damn_ busy! I hate it! Why’d you have to come today, anyway!”

His father’s jaw tightened. “And we’re shouting and swearing, too. Starting the day with a piss-poor attitude, destroying things that don’t belong to you without asking, sneaking away, and now we’re shouting and swearing.”

“No!” protested Peter, glaring. “I don’t- you’re not _listening_ , it’s not _me,_ it’s _you,_ you ruin _everything!_ ”

“Oh, I’m about to ruin your everything,” said his father, reaching out a hand. Peter jerked back, shocked at himself. He _never_ -

“And we’re adding plain as day defiance,” sighed his father, his hand shooting out faster than Peter could move, grabbing Peter’s arm and giving him a shake. “What has gotten _in_ to you, Petey?”

“Nothing, it’s _you,”_ spat Peter, heart pounding in his ears, voice hitched. “I hate you!” he said hotly, just to- to get it out past his lips.

His father clucked his tongue and shook his head, one hand coming up to undo Peter's belt, unbuttoning his pants just as quickly and shoving all of the covering cloth down. “Major poor attitude,” he mused in a disappointed tone that stung Peter’s eyes. “Well. We’ll start with that, then,” he said, pulling Peter to him and manhandling the teen down over his lap.

“No!” wailed Peter. The belt was bad enough, but this always made him feel five again- five and in _disgrace_ \- “No, daddy-“ shit, it had just _slipped out_ , he hadn’t called the man that in years- “no, I don’t _need-“_

“Oh, little _boy_ ,” sneered his father. “Oh, my sweet sweet son,” he crooned, lifting his hand and letting it fly with one of the hardest smacks Peter’d ever received in his life. He lit a blaze, and then he just _kept adding fuel,_ as he continued, “You act like a tantruming toddler, you get _treated_ like a tantruming toddler, in this family. And that’s all this is, Petey Pie. Just a tantrum to get Daddy’s attention. Well, you got it, you got my attention, how are you liking it?”

Peter bit back a sob and choked out, instead, “I don’t _need_ this, I don’t- I’m not a little kid-“

”Well, you’re for damn sure not a _big kid_ ,” muttered his father irritably, his hand falling with smacking noises that echoed around the room and making Peter jump to the tune being drummed into his backside. “You were a _big_ kid when you learned how to play nice with others, how to not destroy Daddy’s toys, how to behave yourself in public, how to use your words and keep yourself safe. Pretty sure you were a big kid when you had all that figured out, finally, and since you’ve forgotten all of that, time to go back to basics. Little kid stuff. Little tantruming toddler spankings, Petey. That’s where you’re at, that’s how we’ll handle it.”

Peter’s face was red as he struggled. “No, no, I’m- I’m not a little- you can use the belt, you can-“

“Oh, I will,” his father assured him calmly. “Don’t think taming the toddler is all we’ll be doing in here, Petey, son. I’m addressing all of it, right now, and just you wait until we call your mother.”

“Noo,” moaned Peter, as the burn in his backside began to feel hot and swollen, the skin feeling stretched tight. “Please, D-daddy, I d-didn’t-“

“Didn’t what? Curse, lie, break things, sneak away? Which one didn’t you do, today?” asked his father in a tone of mock surprise.

“D-didn’t _mean_ ,” sobbed Peter, shocked at the sound of his own voice and realizing with a start that he was going to start crying any minute now. “J-just wanted-“

“Daddy’s attention,” said his father firmly. “Well, now you’ve got it. Everything you wanted.”

“N-no,” gasped Peter. He most definitely did not want this- all his father’s disapproval, his heavy hand imprinting his disgust with Peter, all of the worst feelings in the world, right here, right now, inside Peter. His father wasn’t even wrong, Peter _had done_ those things, even if he hadn’t _meant_ them like- like _this_. He took one last gasp and the tears overflowed as he thought about how he hadn’t _thought_ , before doing any of those things, and begged, “Please, s-sir.”

“Please, sir,” mocked his father. “Where was that, this morning, on the bus? Where was that good boy, when Daddy had to take a phone call and tell the people to call Mommy instead, huh? Where was my good boy, then?”

“D-dunno,” begged Peter, writhing on his father’s lap, tears starting to fall from his chin. “S-sorry, s-sorry.”

“Don’t know? You don’t know where Daddy’s good boy went?” said his father in mock surprise. “Well, no need to worry your pretty little head, because I’m gonna _find_ him, Peter. I’m gonna find him and help you remember to _never ever_ let him get lost again, you hear me?”

“N-nooo,” wailed Peter, as his father tilted him up and began to slap at his sensitive sit-spot. He smacked again and again, as hard as he’d hit the round globes of Peter’s buttcheeks, the sting building and building, until he lowered his knee and began the rounds on the cheeks above, giving Peter some breathing space for a moment.

“D-don’t wanna get lost,” wailed Peter, as soon as he could draw enough breath to gather the words together and shove them out. “Don’t- please- don’t wanna get lost-“

“I know you don’t, my good boy,” said his father calmly. “I know you don’t want to get lost or get snatched, I know you, Peter Stark, I know you only want to be a good boy for your daddy.”

“Please, please,” begged Peter, rubbing his eyes on his forearms, “Please, please, I’m _sorry_ , I’m _sorry_ , I won’t-“

“No, you will not,” agreed his father, his hand not slowing or softening as Peter jumped and sobbed. “You absolutely will not, and I’m making sure of it. No more, Peter. No more lying, no more breaking, no more wrecking, no more ruining. No more bad attitude. Say it.”

“No more attitude,” gasped Peter, stuttering. “No- no more, no more Dad, promise,” he wailed.

The spanking stopped as abruptly as it had begun, the hand falling one last time and resting there, rubbing deep into the muscle and making Peter sob, shuddering. “You ready to be Daddy’s good big boy?” asked his father, and Peter’s heart skipped a beat, recognizing the change in tone, the change in _address_ , and realizing what that _meant_. “Or you still got some nasty attitude left in there, to ruin the rest of our day together?” asked his father firmly.

“No!” yelped Peter. “No, sir, no, no, I’m good, I’ll be good,” he babbled, wiggling on the lap he was thrown across.

“You _were_ good. You didn’t once throw back a hand to try to stop me,” mused his father, a hand rising to rub Peter’s back as he continued to cry. “Musta thought you needed one, too, huh?”

Peter shook his head, and tried to snuffle back the worst of the snot, to stop the tears, making himself hiccup.

“Oh, you think you _don’t_ deserve this?” asked his father in a threatening tone of voice, and Peter grabbed for his father’s pants leg, wrapping his arms around it tightly. “No, no, no, I do, I do,” he babbled. I do, _please_ , Daddy.”

“You do please your daddy,” his father said, his comforting hand trailing up under Peter’s t-shirt, the other hand starting to caress his ass. “Even when you’re like this, I can find you, my good boy, buried deep inside the little brat that’s stomping around, even when you’re at your worst, I can find you.”

“F-find me,” agreed Peter breathlessly.

“Yeah,” said his father. “You think you’re so tough, don’t you, little man?”

That had always been his nickname, back when he’d been- before he’d started to become a man, really become a man, and before his father had- had noticed- Peter felt his skin start to flush. “D-dad,” he stuttered.

“No, now, when I was hitting you, you remembered that trusting little name you used to give me, big boy,” teased his father. “I can keep hitting you, until you remember it, Petey, if you need that,” he offered wickedly.

“D-daddy,” gasped Peter.

“That’s the one,” agreed his dad, the soothing hand on his ass sliding between Peter’s butt cheeks, pressing at the knot of muscle there. “That’s what you’re gonna call me, for the rest of our time in this little room, that trusting little word that means you remember how much I love you, how much I’m here for you, how everything I do is for you, you understand, my good boy?”

“Y-yes, sir,” breathed Peter, as the finger probed, a little deeper, pushing past the ring of muscle. “D-daddy,” he gasped.

“Yeah, you’re going to be really good for Daddy, here, in a minute, my good boy,” grunted Tony, “But first, we’re gonna treat you like the big bad boy you wanted to be, just a few minutes ago, before I found my good boy again. You gonna be good for Daddy, bend over and let me remind you that you _don’t_ run and hide from me, you don’t _lie_ to me, you don’t _break my things_ just because you’re mad?”

“Y-yes, D-daddy,” promised Peter, rubbing his face again.

“Good boy,” praised his father, pulling that damn questing finger back out. “Stand up, behind the chair.”

Peter groaned to his feet and then shuffled behind the chair.

“Bend over it, hands on the seat,” said his father lowly. “There, just like that, good boy,” he praised, as Peter hunched over the chair, hand flat on the seat and head hanging down.

His father bent down and gathered up his belt and then paused, crouched. “Well, look at that,” he said, in a tone of playful wonder. “You like being Daddy’s good boy that much, huh, son?”

Peter flushed, but nodded. There was no hiding his aching erection in this position, after all. And he’d just had a reminder of what a bad idea it was to _lie_ to this man re-explained to him.

“Well, I’ll make sure to take care of that, too, after we get the lesson imprinted a little more deeply,” said his father. “And after you let me take care of mine, however I decide I want it taken care of.”

Peter nodded weakly, shuttering his eyes against the world.

“Hm. Y’know, I somehow don’t want to use my belt,” mused his father, straightening and looping it back through the beltloops on his pants. Peter felt dizzy, until his father reached down and tugged Peter’s belt out of his pants in one smooth motion. “Nope, want to use yours. Then you can put it back on and remember it’s right there, ready to destroy all those bad impulses again, any time I need it.”

Peter whimpered, and his father said firmly, “No shouting. Not unless you want those guards to come running in here, see you all hard for your father, get an eyeful of the rest of what I mean when I argue you need hands-on parenting, Peter.”

Peter shook his head and bit his lip, nodding eagerly. “I- I won’t, I’ll- I’ll be good, be quiet,” he promised rashly.

“Ten,” said his father firmly. “You yell once, disobey me once, and it’ll double.”

“Ten,” agreed Peter on a sob, his eyes already welling up with tears again, arms trembling to hold him upright. “Ten, yes, Daddy, please.”

“What have you been, all day?” asked his father.

“A- a b-bad boy,” stuttered Peter.

“A bad big boy, or a bad little boy,” asked his father.

“A b-bad l-little b-boy,” stammered Peter, his heart racing, the tears spilling over.

“Yeah. And in a minute, you’re gonna be my good big boy, and I’ll take care of you the way you need to be taken care of, hands-on style,” said his father. “But first, first- ten reminders of why you should think before you throw a tantrum, you understand?”

Peter gasped as the first strapping hit, rocking him up on his toes. His father kept count, and rhythm, though all ten, pacing them so that Peter had time to clench and relax, feel every single blow as a unique experience worthy of his full attention. “Now,” said his father, at last. “Number ten, Petey. You’re being so good and quiet, last one, and then- then I’ll know, you’re my good boy again, so sweet, my good big boy who deserves to be treated like a sweet good boy, yeah, Petey?”

“P-please,” begged Peter, sobbing as quietly as he could. “P-please, Daddy.”

“That’s a good boy, begging for the punishment he knows he’s earned,” praised his father, lifting back Peter’s belt one more time and letting it lick flame and fire in a slash across his butt.

“Ahh,” moaned Peter, strangling on the scream that wanted to escape, strangling it down and quiet, so quiet. “Please, Daddy, please.”

His father’s hands were quick on his hips, positioning him, one finger pressed at Peter’s pucker. “Your kit still in your backpack?” he asked quietly.

“Y-yes, Daddy,” sobbed Peter, balancing on one hand to try to wipe his face, to stop the tears.

“Hold still, my good big boy,” said his father, and Peter nodded his understanding.

There was the sound of rustling, and then his father said, curiously, “Peter, why is your cock cage in your kit?”

Peter’s heart began to thump. Oh, no. Oh, _God_ , how had he forgotten? “M-mom-“ he began, and then bit his lip before continuing, “s-said I h-had to be g-good or-“

“Oh, I’m calling her, before we move forward,” said his father firmly, and Peter began to cry again, his body arching over the chair. His father put a soothing hand on his back, his other hand dialing fast on his phone, and from the noises it emitted, Mom picked up right away. “Hey, hon, little problem, got it back in hand again, but- yeah, it’s Petey,” said his father. “Just five minutes of your time, yeah?” There was a longer pause and then, “Sure, speakerphone.”

“-told him,” came the exasperated sound of Mom’s voice into the room. “Peter, can you hear me?”

“Y-yes, Mom,” sobbed Peter.

“Well, that doesn’t sound great,” she sighed. “But you said you’ve got it under control?”

“He’s agreed he’d much prefer to be our good big boy than our naughty little tantrum-throwing toddler,” his father informed her.

“Oh, well done, then, both of you,” she said wryly. “So, what do you need me for, right now? Or is this the apology call so I can get ready for tonight?”

“Both,” declared his father happily. “I’m trying for that efficiency you’re always asking for.”

“Gold medal,” laughed his mother. “So, go ahead.”

“Why’s Petey’s cock cage in his kit?” asked his dad, tapping his fingers on Peter’s back.

“Oooh, didn’t he _tell you?”_ she said, threateningly.

“F-forgot to,” hiccupped Peter. “F-forgot.”

“Forgot what I said, about that attitude you’ve been giving me, and what would happen if your dad had to straighten you out, in public, during the fieldtrip?” said his mom, in a tone of amazed disappointment.

Peter began to cry.

“Well, I still don’t know what to do, here,” said his father, tapping his fingers impatiently on Peter’s back, and shifting his weight.

“He was supposed to tell you to clip it on right away,” grated his mother. “No orgasms for the son who can’t control himself.”

“Well, that’s not going to work,” sighed his father, “He’s already hard enough to pound nails, dripping, too. And there's no way I'll be able to get it back down again before we have to rejoin the group. Not enough time.”

There was a general sound of silence, except for Peter’s snuffling sobbing and gasps. “Well, fuck it out of him, then, and then cage him, and he can wear it all weekend,” decided his mother. “And we’ll talk about his memory problems tonight, on top of the rest of whatever he did.”

“Apologize,” said his father shortly.

“S-sorry,” sobbed Peter, squirming slightly. “So- s-sorry, gonna be good, promise, mama, gonna- gonna- be so good.”

“This had better be the best orgasm of your father’s life, do you hear me?” she told him in exasperation.

“Impossible, the one that created him was the best one,” interrupted his father.

“You know what I mean. It’s not supposed to be about him and his- dammit, not _now_ , Cindy- he was supposed to realize controlling _himself_ was better and easier than us taking control,” she sighed.

“Well, we can try to get that sunk in this weekend,” said his father brightly.

“I suppose,” she sighed. “Well, you be good now, young man.”

“Be so good,” he promised her, hiccupping again.

“Mm,” she hummed in disbelief. “And you, keep an _eye_ on him, okay? Don’t let him fail you.”

“I won’t,” agreed his father. “Love you, see you at six.”

“I’ll have dinner,” she promised. “Yes, Cindy, now, now is a good time.”

His father hung up the phone and slipped it into his pocket before unzipping his pants. “You heard her, son?”

“Y-yes, Daddy,” sobbed Peter.

“Second best fuck of my life, you give that to me, you understand?” said his father, the cap of the lube flipping open loud in the small room.

“Y-yes, Daddy,” sobbed Peter, pushing back on the digit that shoved inside him.

“That’s a good boy,” soothed his father. “Just like that, eager and so sorry, so eager to show me how good you can be, huh?”

“Please, Daddy,” wailed Peter, nodding, as his father shoved a second lubed finger in with the first.

“You do please Daddy, my good boy,” purred his father in a satisfied voice. “You do.”

Peter swallowed and sank back, willing himself to relax as his father worked his fingers in and out of his hole, stretching quickly and efficiently until he said, “That’s enough, want you to feel this, since we don’t have a plug in your kit. You get ready, give me a good ride, now.”

“D-daddy,” stuttered Peter, his throat aching from all the crying, his voice raw. “Daddy!” he shouted, as his father thrust in quickly, as deep as he could, only to pull out just as fast, and sink in again, a little deeper.

“That’s it,” grunted his father. “Tight like that, take it like that, tight, God, son, show me you’re ready to be so good.”

“So good,” promised Peter, shaking his head back and forth, as his father began to set as punishing a rhythm with his cock as he’d used earlier with his hand. “Please, Dad-dy,” he begged, remembering at the last second to turn the _dad_ into the _daddy_ that his father wanted to hear, this afternoon. “P-please.”

“Oh, my good boy,” crooned his father, fucking in harder, switching up the angle so he missed Peter’s prostate on every thrust. “You just take this fucking over that’s coming to you. You just show me what a good boy you can be, taking Daddy’s cock without getting anything for yourself.”

Peter hissed, and nodded, as his father ground his fingertips into the painful flesh of Peter’s ass and dug his dick deeper and deeper into his son with every shove in.

After several long minutes, his father slowed and said soothingly, “There, that was so good, big boy, stop crying hon, Daddy’ll take care of you, he’ll come deep inside you and let you come, too, hon. You want that? You want that, my good boy? Ask for it, ask for it like a big boy, use your big words.”

“P-please,” sobbed Peter, trying to calm down as his father- finally- switched the angle and began grinding his cock against Peter’s prostate with every thrust, making Peter twitch and jump and moan for reasons other than pain and panic, finally. “P-please, Daddy, make me- make me come on your cock, come- come inside me, please.”

“Such a good boy, for Daddy,” purred his father, setting a pace Peter recognized well, as he raced them both towards orgasm. “You go ahead and win,” his father said playfully. “It’ll be the last one for a week, if I know how mad your mom is right now.”

Peter enflamed with shame and somehow that made everything even worse, made his father’s cock seem bigger and deeper, and his prostate more sensitive, as he pushed back and tried to be the second-best ride of his father’s life. “Good boy,” his father praised, his voice going breathless. “Go on, Petey, come on, come for Daddy, come on my cock-“

Peter felt the glow begin in the base of his spine, his balls leaping upward, and spluttered, hands gripping the edge of the metal chair hard, cock jumping as his release spurted through him.

“Fuck, yes,” hissed his father, emptying into him a moment later, as Peter clenched down, caught in the throws of his orgasm. When his father was done thrusting in and out lazily, he slapped Peter on the ass playfully, making Peter yelp, and said, “Anything else we need to straighten out, little man? While we got the room and another fifteen minutes left?”

“N-no,” gasped Peter. “Sorry. No, no, sir, Daddy, please.”

“Good boy,” praised his father breathlessly, sliding out with a squelch and then shoving the leaking cum back into Peter’s ass. “Clench down and try to hold that in, good boy.”

Peter did as he was told.

His father dug around in his backpack and found tissues, wiping first his own cock and then his hands, shoving the used tissues in the front pocket. “Let you sit there, just a minute, remembering how you’ve learned your lesson,” his dad said slowly. “Here, lick me clean, though.” He shoved his softening dick into Peter’s mouth carelessly, dipping it in and out crudely with an impatient hand. “The balls, too,” he grunted, and Peter licked them roughly, too.

“Good boy. Now for you,” said his father, grabbing another tissue. “Just missed your pants and hit the chair with your cum, you can clean that up in a minute,” he said, wiping Peter’s ass and taint roughly with the tissue, before swiping it up and down Peter’s cock. “C’mon, heave off and clean up the chair,” he ordered, tugging Peter’s hips down and shoving his face into the cum pooled on the chair. “Always leave a room looking nicer than when you left it,” he muttered, which was really more Mom’s thing than Dad’s but Peter was done being rebellious, now, and so he licked the chair clean. The cold tang of the metal and the cooling pool of his own cum combined to fill his mouth with a salty, coppery flavor that he knew would be the aftertaste to ever sip of water for the rest of the afternoon.

They’d missed lunch, after all.

“Hold still,” ordered his father, and slid on the most discrete cock cage they’d bought for Peter, the one that tucked his penis tightly, folding it over and preventing him from feeling any sensation. “There. You’ll still have to work through your mom’s disappointment at forgetting in the first place, but, well. You were a pretty good fuck, hon,” said his father, running a hand through Peter’s hair. “Your face looks like shit, though, so we’ve got to hit up a bathroom, try and get you presentable. Never know when the pap are gonna show up.”

Peter nodded because it was true. “’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I forgive you,” sighed his dad. “It’s hard, growing up, having all these- feelings and hormones and stuff. But just _talk_ to me, Petey. Just open your mouth and say something, if you’re struggling. Then we won’t have to-“

Peter nodded eagerly. “I’m sorry, Dad. I ruined the field-“

“Nothing’s ruined,” his dad interrupted urgently, reaching out a gentle hand and cupping Peter's jaw in a way that made the tears spring to his eyes again. “Off to a bad start, maybe. You can fix that, though. Just be my good boy for the rest of the day, huh? Listen, have fun with your friends, and try not to get upset if I have to step away for a few minutes, huh? I’ll come right back, I’m not letting anyone have anything more than five minutes of my time, today.”

“No one but me,” said Peter unhappily.

“That’s exactly right,” said Dad firmly. “Because you’re the most important thing in my life, ain’tcha, buddy?”

Peter’s lips trembled as he nodded, and his Dad pulled him into a tight hug, not seeming to care if his suit jacket got tears or snot on it, Peter marveled. But then, his dad never _had_ cared about stuff like that.

“Okay, let’s go, tiger, find that washroom,” sighed his dad, standing up and pulling Peter up. He pulled up Peter’s underwear, careful to tuck the cage in gently, and pulled up Peter’s jeans, snickering when Peter hissed and groaned. “Yeah, that’s one lesson that needs to _stick_ ,” he laughed, threading Peter’s belt through his loops and giving it a tug to settle it. “You wear this belt every day, now, and you remember what’s waiting for you if you ever forget it.”

“No sneaking off,” agreed Peter firmly. “You have to be able to find me.”

“At all times,” agreed his dad firmly. “I can’t _do_ that again, Petey. You’re the most-“ he swallowed. “-most important thing in the world. I’d do anything to keep you safe.”

“I know, Dad,” said Peter, cheeks flushing. “I _thought_ you could text me-“

“Enough, we’ll talk it through tonight,” said Dad, smiling a little. “Let’s go wash your ugly mug. You look awful.”

Peter made a face. “Your genetics showing through, Dad,” he teased cautiously.

“My something all right,” laughed his dad, guiding him out of the room. “Let’s go dig up some bones and put them together, see if we can get a whole skeleton this time. You got a good crew, might be possible.”

If anyone could, it was the four of them, thought Peter. Him, Ned, MJ, and his dad.

~~~

The news report played in the background, catching Peter’s attention only because they used his name, “-and billionaire dad Tony Stark knew just what to do with that bad attitude! Sources close to the museum say he took his teenage son aside for one of his famous _hands-on_ parenting chats and the young man was much better behaved after that,” laughed the host.

“Y’know, when he first started talking about hands-on parenting years ago, advocates said it would ruin his relationship with his son, lower his son’s IQ, and cause lifelong trauma, but look at the video of them in the dinosaur dig exhibit,” laughed the co-anchor gleefully. “Does that look traumatized, to you?”

“Well, he’s the genius who gave the world clean energy and peace,” said the host wryly. “Maybe he could teach us all a thing about parenting, too.”

Peter rolled his eyes as Tony patted his stomach. “Settle, you know they just talk,” the man rumbled warningly, half-asleep and mostly ignoring the show. “Besides, you’re not traumatized, are you? You’re perfect.”

“Our perfect good boy,” agreed his mother, on his other side, leaning in close to breathe in his ear, “who’s going to stay that way if he knows what’s good for him.”

Peter whimpered and nodded, burying his head in his dad’s chest as she stretched him open and sank the dildo in.

“Settle,” warned his dad. “You know you deserve it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I TOLD YOU IT WAS GONNA BE BAD, BUT NOooooooOOoooo, YOU DIDN'T WANNA LISTEN.
> 
> And now here we are.
> 
> At the end.
> 
> Scream at me in the comments if you liked the ride, because I'll be honest, I had so much fun writing this and then had to take a short break to consider whether I should just- you know- avoid keyboards, in general, if this is the level of filth I'm capable of creating.
> 
> It's a DAUNTING amount of filth.


End file.
